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VIENTOS DE LAS SIERRAS 

(Winds of the Mountains) 


NEW MEXICO POEMS 

By S, Omar Barker 








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To M. J. K. 





The author is indebted to the following publi¬ 
cations, in which many of these verses first ap¬ 
peared, for permission to print them again here: 

To OUR DUMB ANIMALS for The Trapped 
Coyote; TOPNOTCH for Rising Trout, Red 
Magic of the Hills, What the Camper Hears, Sad¬ 
dle Lure, A Young Cowboy at College, My Lady 
Fair, and The One Word Left; LARIAT for 
Little Trails, Pierrot in the Hills, and Summer 
Snow; ACE-HIGH for The Ballad of Cowboy 
Joe; POPULAR for Into the West; FORD 
OWNER AND DEALER for Heart 1 s Desire, and 
Ramblin’; BRIEF STORIES for What Is Spring 
to Youth? and Nocturne; OVERLAND MONTH¬ 
LY for Sanctuary, Mountains and Siesta; 
DROLL STORIES for Lost!; SANTA FE NEW 
MEXICAN for Poppy Day, A Young War Widow 
Speaks, April In My Mountains, and An Aspen 
Grove in Spring; THE AMERICAN LEGION 
WEEKLY for Nos Camarades; FOREIGN SER¬ 
VICE for Red Poppies; CONTEMPORARY 
VERSE for Life, At Timberline, and Mountain 
Lakes; LYRIC WEST for Foreknowledge; 
PEARSON’S for Point of View. Poppy Day, A 
Young War Widow, and Red Poppies have also 
appeared in Dr. Frank P. Davis’ ANTHOLOGY 
OF NEWSPAPER VERSE, and Poppy Day also 
in THE LITERARY DIGEST. 


COPYRIGHT 1924. BY 
S. OMAR BARKER 
BEULAH. N. M. 


[ 6 ] 

tUlj 16 1924 


CONTENTS 


I. New Mexico. 

II. Don Coyote Is My Wild Little Brother of 
the Foothills (Five Poems). 

III. There Are Cowboys, Too, In Our Moun¬ 

tains (Five Poems). 

IV. And Flivvers (Two Poems). 

V. If I Had Not Turned Pedagogue and Mor¬ 
alist (Seven Poems). 

VI. I Might Have Fallen In Love (Eight Po¬ 
ems About That). 

VII. Once I was a Soldier (Five Poems). 

VIII. Next to the Mountains—the Sea (Three 
Poems). 

IX. Home to My Mountains (Fourteen Poems) 


[ 7 ] 





NEW MEXICO 


I. 

“What a God-forsaken desert V y 
It was an eastern farmer, bred to the monoto¬ 
nous luxury of fat hogs and tall corn, that said it; 
and then I asked him if he knew 
How the blue mountains would go walking with 
you down 

On the gray, gray road to Carrizozo town; 

Or the young hill water would sing in the night, 
Far up on the Pecos where the peaks are white . 
And if he had seen, where the plains trails run, 
Our tall phantom cities, born of the sun; 

Or if he had known, as the black shawls know, 

The gray sage paths of Chimayo. 

II. 

But yesterday I saw a lean-thonged man, 

Sun-browned and strong, dig tough mesquite 
To clear a virgin plot for planting corn, 

Another breaking land for wheat: 

Back-bent they were, yet singing in their eyes 
I saw the soul-clear spirit of our skies. 

It came to me again that we who love 
Our tierra encantada here 
Where cactus hills meet vegas lush and green. 

Could never hold her half so dear, 

If she had been a coddling Mother, who, 

For want of hardship lacked a spirit, too. 


[ 9 ] 


III. 


Oh, a sturdy town on a sand-blown plain 
v Is as brave as a ship on the storm-swept main! 
And the age-old mud on Acoma’s cliff 
Is a nobler symbol than a hieroglyph. 

In the tree-browed hills, so muchachos say, 

Great wolves go talking their queer wild way; 
And the brown boys know, down at Cochiti, 

What the coyotes mean by their jubilee. 

In the low green valleys when twilight comes 
There’s a sweet dim droning of forgotten drums. 
Comes a phantom stage on the old town’s streets, 
AndHn the cool plaza Spain’s knighthood meets. 

Do you know how the trees at the desert’s rim 
March out each night to a battle grimf 
And the blue soldier-mountains walk with you as 
you go ' 

Down the sand-gray roads of New Mexicof 


[ 10 ] 


DON COYOTE IS MY WILD LITTLE 
BROTHER OF THE FOOTHILLS 


THE TRAPPED COYOTE 

Last night, and other nights since time began, 

I watched the gray moon rise 
Through green-black pines, with thrills that only I 
Give voice to in my cries. 

Poor foolish dogs of Man have howled to hear 
The echoes, from my song, 

Of their own shadow life of long ago 
Before Man led them wrong. 

A trap—and I am captive ’neath the moon, 

And my weird soul that cried 
Fandangoes through the gloom of yesternight 
Has shriveled here and died. 

Sometime in days to come, my fur, dyed black, 
May glisten near the white 
Of woman’s neck, the wild;gray soul of me 
Still howling in the night. 


[ 11 ] 


RISING TROUT 


Oh, IVe heard the Red Gods call in the summer 
and the fall, 

And when wintry winds their snowy blankets 
fling, 

But IVe kept myself at work, never taking time 
to shirk, 

For I know I’ll slip off fishing in the spring. 

Summer seashore stuff is fine; I adore the silent 
whine 

Of a bullet when the snow is right for deer; 

Shooting ducks is thrilling fun, and I love a good 
quail gun, 

But my heart awaits another time of year. 

When the leaves begin to green, and the brooklet’s 
silver sheen 

Breaks in ripples where the trout begin to rise, 

Then I leave my office flat—business, cares, and 
things like that— 

And get out my bamboo rod and gaudy flies. 

For, though winter has its call, likewise summer 
and the fall, 

There is but one time to make my pulses sing: 

What care I that worries lurk in the city’s sordid 
murk, 

When the speckled trout are rising in the 
spring! 


[ 12 ] 


RED MAGIC OF THE HILLS 


Oh, I’ve loved the great white way, and I’ve 
watched the moonbeams play 

On the ocean where gray ships plow up and 
down, 

For whenever it is night, I’m enchanted by a light, 

On the water, in the country or in town. 

There is magic in the stars, in the lamps of the 
motor cars, 

And in searchlights with their all-beholding 
eyes. 

Oh, a yellow window pane when the night is black 
with rain, 

Is a sweeter thing that smiling sunny skies! 

From the firefly’s tender glow to the sheen of 
northern snow, 

I’m a worshipper of glimmers in the night, 

But there’s only one whose lure seems forever to 
endure, 

And to warm my soul with never-old delight. 

Where the firs are dark and tall, and the lone 
coyote’s call 

Stirs the camper’s heart with vague exotic 
thrills— 

Ah, there’s sorcery supreme in the friendly, ruddy 
gleam 

Of a good old outdoor campfire in the hills! 


[ 13 ] 


LITTLE TRAILS 


Oh, I seek no El Dorado, 

No distant Holy Grail, 

But I am a knight of the sunset hills 
With a quest on every trail. 

Wherever a purple mesa, 

Or a mist-veiled mountain peak, 
Or a silent grove of firs is found, 
There is the goal I seek. 

Oh, dust is on the highway, 

And noise in the town, 

But I am a knight of the little trails 
On the purple hills and brown. 


[ 14 ] 


WHAT THE CAMPER HEARS 

Sometimes I think the Demon from his inky pit 
Has wriggled up to howl his curses through 
the night, 

Or mayhap that some poor lost soul is doomed to 
flit 

In outer dark, and wails to heaven his dismal 
plight. 

Beyond my cabin walls I know the pines are still, 
And through their branches shines the moon 
with ghoulish light— 

Ah! how the cry that rises through them from the 
hill 

Unnerves me! I shiver, although not with 
fright. 

Because I know, despite the terror in that call 
That chills my blood and makes me draw the 
covers tight, 

The fiendish yell and ghastly, ghostly wail are all 
Some hungry, lonely coyote howling in the 
night. 


[ 15 ] 


THERE ARE COWBOYS, TOO, IN OUR 
MOUNTAINS 


SADDLE LURE 

Oh, Fve sat on hard park benches and in springy 
Morris chairs, 

And on silken, flowered mats in far Japan; 

I have parked my lazy carcass in the cars of 
millionaires, 

And I’ve ridden houdahs in the French 
Soudan. 

On a swivel in an office—in a steamer chair at 
sea— 

Why, I’ve even sat and dreamed on woodland 
moss, 

But there’s just one kind of sittin’ that is always 
home to me: 

That’s a-straddle of a good old saddle hoss. 

Just a-lopin’ through the sage-brush where the 
purple mesas rise, 

Or a helpin ’ keep a cow herd on the go— 

When there’s saddle leather creakin’ I ain’t 
heavin’ any sighs, 

’Cause I’ve got my seat in heaven here below! 


[ 16 ] 


A YOUNG COWBOY AT COLLEGE 

Oh, the bloom on the sage up Horse Thief Creek 
Is as high as a man could straddle, 

And summer is greening old Rainbow Peak, 

And me with a desk for a saddle! 

There’s the smell of the herd at Pecos Town, 
A-drifting to summer ranges; 

And the odor of oak from foothills brown, 

And fir where the timber changes. 

There’s bawling of calves at the H Bar Cross, 
And wind in the June grass rippling— 

But here I sit with a spectacled boss, 

A-roundin’ up Keats and Kipling! 

Oh, out on the mesas the punchers ride, 

Their saddles and chaps are creaking— 

Where men learn comradeship side by side, 

With never a need for speaking. 

The grind of the cities is in my ears, 

Wild chatter all jumbled together, 

But my heart is lonesome and darn near tears, 
For the feel of saddle leather! 


[ 17 ] 


THE BALLAD OF COWBOY JOE 

’Way out on a ranch in New Mexico, 

Yippity yayhoo, ol’ Cowboy Joe, 

Where cowpunchers let all their whiskers grow, 
Yippity yayhoo fer Cowboy Joe. 

We found an old sock in a pot o’ tea— 

It smelt like a sock with a pedigree— 

The cook on the roundup was Hing Wah Lee— 
Yippity yayhoo—Cowboy Joe! 

Sweet Joseph he grabbed fer his ol’ six gun, 
Yippity yayhoo, ol’ Cowboy Joe! 

The Chiny boy seen him an’ started to run— 
Yippity yayhoo, from Cowboy Joe! 

But Joe pulled the trigger as quick as you please, 
And plugged him a-runnin’ with sharp-shootin’ 
ease, 

Till Chink was as holey as Switzerland cheese! 
Yippity yayhoo—Cowboy Joe! 

The sheriff he come on a big gray hoss, 

Yippity yay after Cowboy Joe, ! 

Arrested Sweet Joseph and says to the Boss: 

Yippity yayhoo fer Cowboy Joe! 

‘'These boys here ain’t got no respect fer the law, 
They’re slow on behavior and quick on the draw, 
We’ll try him fer murder—say, lend me a chaw!” 
Yippity yayhoo fer Cowboy Joe! > 


[ 18 ] 


Us boys was as sore as'a tenderfoot’s shin, 
Yippity yayhoo, ’bout Cowboy Joe, 

But Sheriffs is Sheriffs, and so we give in— 
Yippity yayhoo, pore Cowboy Joe. 

They took him to court at the county town, 

We knocked off the work and went gallopin’ down 
A hundred come in from the country aroun’! 
Yippity yayhoo, 61’ Cowboy Joe. 

The courtroom was crowded, and what do you 
think ? 

Yippity yayhoo fer'Cowboy Joe — 

Sweet Joseph admitted he’d punctured the Chink! 

Yippity boohoo fer Cowboy Joe! 

But the Jedge took a chaw an’ says: “Let him go 
free! 

Fer killin ’ a man he’d git swung from a tree, 

But the lawbooks don’t mention no heathen 
Chinee! 

Yippity yayhoo fer Cowboy Joe! 


[ 19 ] 


THE SPRING SONG OF THE COWBOY 

Oh, songs of spring that poets sing 
Are sweet as childish prattle, 

But the tune I hear most every year 
Is the bawling of rawboned cattle. 

When winter snow decides to go 
From mesa, plain and valley, 

It leaves hills bleak, and cows so weak 
They ain’t got strength to rally. 

Pore bags of bones—they can’t eat stones— 
The grass ain’t started growing, 

And as we ride, on every side, 

We hear their hungry lowing. 

Some fall in bogs, some back of logs, 

Some die before we find ’em. 

The coyotes know how pore cows go, 

And sneak along behind ’em. 

Us punchers fight both day and night 
To help cows fill their paunches. 

From pools of mud that chill their blood 
We tail ’em from their haunches. 

Pore cows ain’t such an awful much— 

Our boss might stand the losses— 

But when they bawl, we go—that’s all— 

Our hearts are like our boss’s. 

And so the song spring brings along 
To me ain’t lovers’ prattle: 

The tune I hear when spring is here 
Is the bawling of hungry cattle. 


[ 20 ] 


INTO THE WEST 


Traced in the flicker of greasewood fire, 

The Cowboy Kid saw his heart’s desire. 

Still blit a lad at a play cow camp, 

His ears heard the milling remuda’s stamp, 

And he knew his heart would know no rest 
Till he could scratch ’em along with the best; 
And over the shouldered mesas ride, 

His saddle a-creak with his horse’s stride: 

A boy a-dream for the time when he 
Could answer the range’s witchery. 

II. 

Ruddled there by a hearthfire’s flame, 

Grizzled and old as a Salem dame, 

His hair as whitish as alkali, 

The Cowboy Kid sees his past go by. 

He smells the sage from the mesa’s rim, 

And the days come tumbling hack to him; 

Days that were tanged with the smell of hair, 
Burnt till the brand came clean and fair; 

Nights that were droned with a milling herd— 
His feeble heart within him stirred— 

Out of the phantoms in the flame 
Into his soul the old call came. 

III. 

Oh, a heart knows not when a body is old, 

And riding days are a tale that is told— 

For now he would saddle and over the hill, 

Ride to the ranges that beckoned him still. 
There by the fire as he fell asleep, 

The old man’s pulses ceased their sweep 
Of cowboy blood through his leathered veins. 

A West wind called from his sage-brush plains, 
And off to dim ranges of mounted men, 

The Cowboy Kid rode forth again. 

[ 21 ] 


AND FLIVVERS— 


HEART’S DESIRE 

The dim gray line of camel caravans 
That speed unerring over trackless sands, 

From nowhere into distant city gates .... 

The turbaned pomp of Moslem’s potentates .... 
A daughter of Seville in gaudy shawl . . . 
Brown-legged coolies by the ancient wall .... 
The wistful ring of Yukon’s midnight suns, 
Circling .... circling where the wolf pack runs: 
These were the distant goals of Heart’s Desire— 
Their image in me stirred nomadic fire. 

These unattained my life was death and woe! 

I craved adventure in the world, and so 
Today ’tis mine! No longer am I bored: 

I’ve saved my scanty plunks and bought—a Ford! 


[ 22 ] 


RAMBLIN’ 


Some fellers sing fer a little gray house 
By the side of the road, with a soft-eyed spouse 
Hummin , some old tune. 

Other guys dream of the flyin’ fish 
On the Mandalay road, or they even wish 
They could fly to the moon. 

Some for the Romany Patteran— 

And some for the paths where the pipes of Pan 
Yodel a tinklin’ lure— 

Some hit the dust of the cowboy trail, 

And some ain’t alive out o’ sight of a sail— 
Funny ideas fer sure! 

Roads and the “where” ain’t a-botherin’ me, 
Jest so they’re wide as a flivver be, 

Furrin or jest here nearby; 

Any road’s good and the travelin’ great— 

We’re happy an’ lucky—unworried by Fate— 
Ramblin’—my flivver and I. 


[ 23 ] 


IF I HAD NOT TURNED PEDAGOGUE AND 
MORALIST 


WHAT IS SPRING TO YOUTH? 

What is Spring to Youth! 

My youth loved wistful Fall, 

Dead, yellow leaves, and all 

That preached death’s solemn truth 
In anile gold. 

I was embodied Spring. 

I knew its ecstasies, 

And felt its throbbings tease 
In Summer’s sun or sting 
Of Winter’s cold. 

Why, what was April’s rain 
To Youth? Ah! age’s heart 
Is Autumn’s counterpart, 

And Spring is sweet with pain, 

Now I am old. 


[ 24 ] 


TO THE NORMAL UNIVERSITY 

Alma Mater, this word for you: 

That you have stood, warm-hearted, spirit-true, 
In this new-old Southwestern land, 

Knowing its heart, uplifting its hand. 

No pompous peddler of smug sophistry— 

Wise friend and comrade, you have been to me. 


THE TEACHER’S RECOMPENSE 

If I could teach just one 

Good thought that would meet 
The need of some child heart, 
Whose life’s a long hard street; 
One word he would remember 
To fill his life with cheer, 

It would be recompense enough, 
Could I but know—while here. 


[ 25 ] 


A MEASURE FOR MAN 

I hear folks measure up their friends 
And foes, both men and ladies; 

For some they foretell happy ends, 

For many, Hades. 

This man, they say, is truly bad! 

He cusses and plays poker. 

That fellow there is lost—poor lad— 
He’s such a smoker. 

That woman paints her face, and thus 
Her character besmirches. 

(They pin the label “hell” on us 
Who dodge the churches). 

They classify the bad and good 
By catalogues of vices, 

And smother human brotherhood 
In moral crises. 

They growl at jolly songs <we sing— 
Who knows what right or wrong is ? 

The human heart’s a greater thing 
Than any song is. 

Now here’s a measure, friends, for man, 
That’s short and sweet and snappy: 

That one is good who, when he can, 
Makes others happy. 

Forget the old vice catalogue— 

One evil’s like another— 

Thank God for every man—or dog— 
Who loves his brother. 


[ 26 ] 


THE OLD MILL WHEEL 

I don’t suppose that anyone 
Has ever counted mill-wheel turns— 

You, old wheel, turning . . . turning .... 
Lagging like a lazy boy, 

Slow when water was low, 

Running like mad with a rim of foam 
Whenever it was high— 

Did you ever try? 

Sometimes I used to try to count: 

“One . . . .two .... ” bare legs crossed 
And sitting back against a tree 
Where rainbow mist was in my face, 

I’d start, but Fairies in the spray, 
Laughing and dipping round and round, 
Kept making fun of me, 

Until I couldn’t, don’t you see? 

I don’t suppose that anyone 
Has ever counted mill-wheel turns— 

I used to try, and tell myself: 

“Now that’s just a million times around!” 
Or was it a thousand? 

I never could 

Count Fairies and mill-wheel turns at once. 

I don’t suppose that anyone 
Has ever counted them— 

Mill-wheel turns—Fairies—dreams— 

It’s been a long time, too. And now— 

Why, who would go counting turns of the 
mill 

Now that the old wheel is still? 


[ 27 ] 


SCHOOLMASTER 


It is not for the tragedy of wispy hair 

Bled ashen by dull lances of monotony, 

That I must pity you, nor for gray grooves of care 

Unvaried days have plowed upon the face I see. 

Oh, I could weep for these, schoolmaster, and 
forget 

That they are but the flesh that dumbly testifies 

The labored tread of time. Tears for dead years 
—and yet 

Dry ache is in my heart when I look in your eyes. 

Ghosts of surrendered dreams are there; dust of 
a soul 

Once passion-stirred for learning; poor dim 
shadow-gleams 

Of that once radiant shaft of truth sent to enroll 

In Plato’s ancient quest, each sturdy John o’ 
Dreams. 

You knew the call. Your hills gave you resolve, 
and down 

From them you came, whang-muscled, arrow-true 
of mind. 

Through college days, and nights of labor in the 
town 

To pay drab toll for life, your soul withstood the 
grind. 


[ 28 ] 


But when one day you stood, a vision in your face, 

Crusader for the absolute and unfound truth, 

An unseen specter came and took his silent place, 

And cast the first chill shadow on the fire of 
youth. I 

Oh, were you not to blame, schoolmaster, if you 
gave 

Soul strength and precious time to tutor careless 
brains, 

Exhaust and bind yourself instruction-drudge and 
slave f 

Tired days, tired nights . . the vision dimmed . . . 
slow-woven chains. 

One thing to peddle facts, another to hold fast 

Upon the hope and promise of a sacred gleam. 

Your grim, gray-visaged specter, Life, stands now 
at last 

And baffles you with fading flickers of your 
dream. 

Oh, I could weep the pity of senility— 

Poor wisps of snow-gray hair—the Reaper's thin 
disguise— 

But tearless ache, schoolmaster, must break the 
heart of me, 

To glimpse the ghosts of vanished dreams that 
haunt your eyes. 


[ 29 ] 


SANCTUARY 


In pauseless march the unforgiving years 

Will pass, and things that now are cease to be. 
The hopes of youth may dwindle out in tears, 

Or turn to gold through Fortune’s alchemy; 
But all must change, for this is Fate’s decree: 

That youthful loves and joys and ardent fears 
Must flicker out in mists of memory, 

Like lights that soften when night fog appears. 

So passes life. Yet when the crowding grind 
That daily is our great antagonist, 

Shall press me hard in body, soul and mind, 

Or heartaches throb which I cannot resist, 
Kind memories will come, and I shall find 
Calm sanctuary in their purple mist. 


[ 30 ] 


I MIGHT HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE. 
(Poems About That) 

CREPUSCULE 

If I had not seen the sun . when it rose, 
How should I have known 
Its tenderness! 

Oh, I am glad I could look in your eyes 
That first dear day you loved\me! 


PIERROT TO PIERRETTE 

If I had only known the moon 
Was white and cold, 

I would have saved my songs 
For the red fireside and you. 

But now I have broken my heart 
For the moon of a dusky evening, 

I cannot find the glow of your hearthside 
In the white night. 


[ 31 ] 


LOST! 


Dear St. Anthony, please come ’round, 
Something’s lost and can’t be found! 

Last night I walked in an old rose garden 
With a fair maid (and I ask her pardon), 

But I rather think what I lost last night, 

She stole from me in the sweet moonlight! 

I can’t say when it first was missing, 

She may have robbed me in the act of kissing! 
It’s been invulnerable heretofore, 

And now I’ve lost it for evermore! 

Dear St. Anthony, perhaps I’m stupid— 
Calling on you instead of Dan Cupid, 

For now my own is beyond all aid, 

He might steal me the heart of the maid! 


NOW YOU ARE GONE 


It used to be that tawny moons, 

Or little things like daisies wet with dew, 

Were happy, wistful songs to me— 

When I had you. 

Somehow a baby’s golden curl— 1 

Though you might be across the world away— 

Was like heart-music then—but now— 

What can I say? 

I never knew that it was you: 

That poignant sweetness of green hills in 
Spring, 

The deep content of twilight hours 
When crickets sing. 

But now that you are gone from me 

The mellow soul of life seems vanished too. 

Green hills are only hills, that once 
Meant dreams—and you. 


[S3] 


WHEN SNOWFLAKES FLY 

I have loved in summer, 

I have wooed in spring, 

Oh, the yellow, mellow fall 
Is a time to sing! 

Lovers love the seasons, 

Spring, they say, is best— 
Leave me wayward winter-time, 
They may keep the rest. 

Snowflakes are but kisses 
From a tender sky— 

Oh, but love ’s a lovely thing 
When first snowflakes fly! 

Snow’s a white-armed lover,! 

Earth a modest maid— 
Tenderness is truth, my lad, 
Passion’s but a jade. 

I have mooned in spring-time, 
Summer and the fall— 

Now I know when there is snow, 
Love is best of all.. 


[ 34 ] 


FOR FORGETTING 

There will be things to remember 
And to forget, 

And I shall choose September 
Winds that wet 
Your hair with halo-mist, 

That gold-haze day we kissed 
And knew all breathlessly: 

This for my memory. 

There will be your lips to remember, 
But to forget— 

Shall I not choose September, 

And . . . regret? 


MY LADY FAIR 

There’s a winsome brown-eyed maiden 
Not far from where I write; 

Her smile with love is laden, 

Her skin is pink and white. 

I’ve never seen her frowning; 

She looks so sweet to me, 

That were I Keats or Browning, 

I’d write her poetry. 

I go to her quite often, 

And though I’m sometimes late, 
Her brown eyes seem to soften— 

She gives me every date! 

She’s not my sweet patootie; 

She craves no motor car, 

For she’s a painted beauty 
On this year’s calendar. 

[ 35 ] 



NOCTURNE 


L 

A white night for purity, 

A chaste moon and the earth 
In robes of folded snow 
Beneath the black hill pines. 

White nights for purity 
And soul-sweet thoughts of you. 

II. 

Yet for the quiver of your kiss, 

Your dear warm arms about my neck, 
Let it be graying twilight 
In some rose-scented June .... 
Somewhere a red-gold moon 
Couched in the arms of wistful trees . 
A garden walled with passion vines . 
Warm shadows from low-lying hills— 
Young twilight . . .mist-gold moons : 
These for the heart-sweet of your lips. 


ONCE I WAS A SOLDIER 


POPPY DAY 

“Pushin' up the daisies, Bill, 
Shovin' up the blooms, 

Feedin' poppies on a hill, 

From our peaceful tombs." 

Mac and me were buddies then, 
Fightin' over there— 

Smilin' Mac, a-jokin' when 
Grim death was in the air. 

We'd jest been a-wondering 
What we'd likely do, 

Cornin' home and everything, 

When the war was through. 

“Pushin' up the daisies, Bill— 
Reckon that'll be—" 

(Mac he smiled and rolled a pill) 
“Goin' home fer me!" 

“ 'Member, Bill, that poppy bud 
Where poor old Lem lay dead? 

Why, Bill, he'll never mind the mud, 
With poppies overhead. 

‘ 6 Ain’t as if we'd croak in vain— 
When we’re gone, you bet, 

Folks'll be at peace again— 

People won't ferget!" 


[ 37 ] 


Poor old Mac, he’ll never mind, 
Lyin’ with the brave, 
Blood-red poppies in the wind, 
Noddin’ on his grave. 

Poppies growin’ from his heart— 
Seems like it’s my own 
Them poppy roots will bust apart 
Since old Mac is gone. 

Folks ain’t all forgot, I guess, 
And some still shed a tear— 
Red poppies am’t fergetfulness, 
And poppy day is here. 


NOS CA'MARADES 

(Written When the French Went Into the Ruhr) 

Somewhere in France and Germany the poilus 
march again, 

Horizon-blue is in the streets and helmets drip 
with rain. 

Crowds gather in the old French towns to watch 
their men depart, 

And oh, the tramping march of feet re-echoes in 
my heart! 

For I have known these camarades, and I have 
seen them go 

From little farms and homely shops to meet a 
brutal foe. 

And I have seen grim ruins clear from Belfort to 
the sea, 

And who is there that can forget the tears of 
Mere Marie? 


[ 38 ] 


They tell me France is making war, and that her 
poilns lust 

For vengeance on a fallen foe, to trample in the 
dust 

A peaceful, helpless people, just to even up the 
score 

Of bitter ancient enmity with cannon’s dreaded 
roar. 

But I have known the hearts of them, sore 
stricken in the war, 

And just a chance to live in peace is all they’re 
asking for. 

Drear winter rain pours o’er the walls of ruins 
at Stenay— 

In cozy, tight-walled farmsteads German children 
laugh and play. 

Oh, we’re done with war-time hating; and grim 
poilus in the Ruhr 

Have dreams of home and children, not of ven¬ 
geance’s mad allure. 

Who calls their marching madness and their 
armed hand arrogance? 

Ah, some there are who know the heart and suff¬ 
ering of France! 

Marcel is in his uniform, his bayonet is bright, 

Old comrades of the Belleau line are standing for 
the right. 

No battle’s roar has torn the air—we’re hoping 
none will start— 

But oh, the poilus’ marching tramp finds answer 
in my heart! 


[ 39 ] 


A YOUNG WAR WIDOW SPEAKS 
(On Poppy Day) 

This is the day when I shall wear 
Three red poppies in my hair. 

Three red poppies, red as blood, 

Symbols of my widowhood. 

Poppies look gay in hair like mine, 

Gay as the sparkle of rich-hued wine. 

And when I smile from a broken heart, 

People will wonder and whisper apart. 

“She has forgotten!” I hear them say, 

“And flaunts red flowers in bold display!” 

But these red poppies are signs to me 
Of a blood-stained grave across the sea. 

I shall wear one for a woman’s loss— 

The grief of a Mary at Calvary’s Cross. 

And one for the buddies who lie at his side, 
Bravely they fought and nobly died. 

Two red poppies upon my head 
Are heart ’s-blood tokens for the dead. 

The third I’ll wear for a woman’s plea 
That we may cherish eternally. 

The flag of our soldiers who perished in France, 
Keeping the faith with devout vigilance. 

This is the day when I shall wear 
Three red poppies in my hair. 

Poppies today are in street and mart— 

I wear them forever, in my heart. 

[40] 


THE ONE WORD LEFT 

The good old doughboy lingo that we used across 
in France, 

Like “hoosegow,” “parleyvoo’ and “coneyac,” 

Is on its woeful way to join the feel of O.D. pants, 

In the limbo of forgotten bric-a-brac. 

We used to talk of “Jerries” and their “G. I. 
cans,’ 9 and such, 

Of “slum,” or maybe “goldfish” for our chow, 

But wifey thinks “Mitt-wobbler” is some naughty 
word in Dutch, 

And what does “K. P.” mean to people now! 

“Toot sweet!” we used to tell ’em, or to “come 
on, shake a leg!” 

By “finee” the mess sarge meant you’re out 
o’ luck. 

“Bed horse” meant corned bill rations, and an 
“oof” was simply egg, 

While private was the payroll name for “buck.” 

Oh, of course we can’t retain ’em, though we 
sometimes use ’em yet, 

And the good old lingo’s bound to pass away, 

But there’s one word from the army no true 
soldier will forget: 

Good old 4 ‘ Buddy’s ” in our talk—and hearts— 
to stay! 


RED POPPIES 


Red poppies are a sign to me 
Of things I never more may see. 

Of ships that plied to St. Nazaire 
To carry soldiers over there. 

Along the shore where poppies blow 
We used to watch them come and go. 

Of twilight strolls when lonesomeness 
Was softened by Yvonne’s caress. 

Of endless days of sweating drill 
Where poppies grew on every hill. 

In fields of wheat and sudden death 
Red poppies spread their soothing breath. 

Beside a shattered church of stone 
A poppy dared to bloom alone. 

When Jimmie Morton tumbled dead 
I saw a poppy kiss his head. 

Ah! tears must come when memory’s 
chance 

Recalls the hills and fields of France, 

Where poppies grow eternally 
And feed upon the heart of me. 


[ 42 ] 


NEXT TO THE MOUNTAINS—THE SEA 


SEA MEMORIES 

A moonlit mist lies over the hills 
Like fog-swept ships at sea, 

A scudding wind through aspens shrills— 

The whistle of spars to me. 

Somewhere beyond the moveless plain, 

Near a fortunate town I know, 

Gray night comes down through a gauze of rain 
Where lights of a harbor glow. 

The moan of a light ship guarding the reef 
Where tramps of the sea loom by, 

Is filling the night with its sweet old grief— 
And a landbound farmer I! 

When sun’s on the hills and the corn is young, 
A sailor can half forget, 

But oh, the songs that the sea has sung 
Come back when the night fog’s wet! 

My cottage glows with a cozy light, 

But sea fog shrouds the hill— 

My heart is a sailing ship tonight, 

And the ocean claims it still. 


LIFE 

Dreams and a gay ship 
Scudding to sea . . . . 
Ghosts and a gray ship 
Beckoning me. 


[ 43 ] 


MAGIC OF THE SEA 


Oh, I’d like to settle down in some quaint and 
quiet town, 

Where the harbor fills with sails home from 
the sea, 

There to watch with peaceful eyes, homely hills 
and friendly skies, 

And to hear the shore waves lapping on the lea. 

Just a little shanty there, and a friend or two to 
share 

Memories of ventures when our hearts were 
young. 

Just to watch the ships come home, just to smell 
the tang of foam, 

And sometimes to hear a seaman’s chantey 
sung. 

Oh, I’m longing more and more, for a little place 
ashore, 

Now that time has turned my life-ship toward 
the West. 

There’s adventure on the sea—ah, its voice is 
sweet to me! 

But the harbor’s calm is calling me to rest. 

Yet I know that some brave night, schooner sails 
would beckon white, 

And the sea would whisper magic in its moan— 

Oh, ’twould break an old man down, biding there 
within the town, 

With his heart a-sail for seas it once had 
known! 


[ 44 ] 


HOME TO MY MOUNTAINS 


MOUNTAINS 

I have known the prairies, 

I have loved the sea— 

Open air everywhere 
Incense is to me. 

There’s a lure to islands, 
Neckerchiefed in foam, 

Yet I know this is so: 

Mountains are my home. 

Mountain trees are friendships, 
Mountain tops are thrills, 
Sympathy comes to me 

From the warm-armed hills. 

Wanderers from mountains 
Tell me truthfully, 

When the night moon is white 
Mountains sail the sea. 

I have sailed to London, 

Known the lure of Rome— 
Oh, but mountain memories 
Bring me breathless home. 


[ 45 ] 


PIERROT IN THE HILLS 


Oh, what is the use of a printed book 

When I’ve caught the moon in the hills, 
And the ghost of the wind, with finger a-crook, 
Is dancing on mountain rills? 

There’s never a word I’ve learned to write, 
And never a book-told tale 
That is half so gay as the merry sprite 
That teaches the nightingale. 

They say I’m a fool with a funny look— 

Well, I learned my A B C’s— 

But what is the use of a printed book 

When I’ve caught the moon in my trees ? 


FOREKNOWLEDGE 

Well, if the brook can babble and sing, 

And the pines only sigh, 

That’s not such a puzzling thing: 

I can tell yon why. 

Daybreak brings to the gypsy clown 
New paths for his rills, 

But the pines see the sun swing up and down 
Over changeless hills. 

Brooks tumble along and never foresee 
Their joys or tears, 

But the pines have known what it is to be 
For years and years. 


[ 46 ] 


WAITING 


What is it the pines are waiting for! 

Out on the roan-rocked hills 
I have sat in the mellow August sun 
And watched them, 

Their sturdy, black-scaled arms and trunks 

Etched in clear still lines 

Upon the cohalt canvas of the sky, 

Their tufts of needles all upturned 
In glistening expectancy to the sun. 

Sombre and calm and still are the pines .... 
Their calm has not deceived me, 

For when a breath of wanton wind 
Stirs along the hill, 

I hear them breathe a furtive, uncompleted sigh. 
And while the aspens are still quivering 
In gay abandon at the passing kiss of the breeze, 
My pines have gone back again, 

Back to their wistful waiting. 

Ah! my heart has ached for the pines, 

Waiting—waiting—out there on the sleeping hills 
For in the dark of night I have heard them, 
Sobbing in the arms of the wind. 

And when another day has come 
I have found them 

Waiting again in futile stillness .... 

Waiting, waiting for something that never comes. 


[ 47 ] 


AT TIMBERLINE 


Just where the first gray grassy bench 

Has clambered sternly out of spruce and pine, 
Two crooked trees have sucked scant vital 
sap 

From stony breasts, and felt bleak winds 
enwrap 

Their limbs with death, to stand at timberline. 

Now one no longer greets the wrench 

Of twisting gales with sturdy-muscled glee, 
Nor croons soft, whirring lullabies in June. 
He whistles high, wild tunes to winter’s 
moon, 

And down-hill points to ghosts whom none 
can see. 

But when next summer’s cloud mists drench 
These steeps, and vagrant breezes kiss at will 
Their lover trees, and find one standing 
gray 

And still, with one light sigh they’ll whisk 
away 

To court young branches farther down the hill. 


[ 48 ] 


MOUNTAIN LAKES 

These are the things my heart had lodged and 
loved, 

As when some lone hill cabin welcomes home 
With simple faith its grizzled miner men: 

Strong plowmen’s hands, fresh from their fer¬ 
tile loam, 

Slow setting snns, and mellov cockled souls, 

Old songs, spring hills, stont hearts and salt 
sea foam. 

These were my sonl until one gentle day, 

I rode up timbered mountains drowsily, 

And topped the hill and viewed in sudden awe 
A limpid jewel tucked in tree-fringed lee 
Of higher slopes, and added these three more: 
Still mountain lakes, and truth, and purity. 


[ 49 ] 


SUMMER SNOW 


The blue fringed gentians and the firs and I 
Are intimate with beauty true, 

Steadfastly pure and deep as mother love, 

Yet freshly cool as morning dew. 

June snow is more than winter’s residue: 

It is Madonna of the hills, 

White mother of gray rivers on the plain, 

Of trout-filled pools and mossy rills. 

And if the firs stand tall and straighter here 
Beside gray peaks where melting snows 
Inlay mosaic patterns rare and fine— 

Is it to honor her? Who knows? 

On cliff-browed mountain peaks in summer time, 
Far from the world that others know, 

The blue fringed gentians and the firs and I 
Are boon companions to the snow. 


[ 50 ] 


APRIL IN MY MOUNTAINS 

Comes April in my mountains, 

And where a dapple robe of snow 
Has spotted pine-clad slopes, 

The warm brown earth begins to show. 

The swell of snowdrops budding 

Bursts through the moss along dear rills— 
And oh! the wistful heart 

Of me, far from my friendly hills! 

Soft, vagrant clouds go scudding 
Along the sunny sky and bring 
A gift of rain to court 

The purple violets of spring. 

Oh, I have loved my mountains— 

All dapple-brown and tender green— 
When spring comes throbbing through 
With myriad beauties unforseen. 

Sweet mists are on the loma, 

And in my heart a mist of pain— 

Comes April in my mountains 
In a gown of silver rain. 


[ 51 ] 


AN ASPEN GROVE IN SPRING 

In snowbound February I have seen 

The stark gray spires of aspen trees, as lone 
As if some bourn of darkness lay between 

Their neighbor trunks in friendly clusters 
grown. 

And when the keening wind whined down the hills, 
Each barren aspen sang its own wild strain. 
What though brown roots entwined with tender 
thrills ? 

Gray groves above stood stiff in grim disdain. 

Not so when May time in a sheening gown 

Of rain, with yellow fringe of sunlight 
trimmed, 

Brings vernal life and animation down 

From smiling skies no longer frost-bedimmed. 

Then tender, greening leaves dance and caress, 

In intimate accord they twit and sing, 

No longer trunks are stark in loneliness, 

For trees—and hearts—grow friendly in the 
spring. 


[ 52 ] 


WIND IN TREES 


There is no sound in the world 
Like wind in trees. 

Unless.Is it a sound when life 

Comes swooping through the souls of men 
In vast uncertainties? 

I have stood on fir-robed hills 
When, all unseen, 

And out of nothing from the West, 

The wind has brought its vague unrest 
To stir calm-hearted trees. 

Gray as a pointing ghost, 

Sapless and stark, 

A lone and lifeless patriarch 
Stands stiff and senses not the host 
Of passions in the wind; 

And yet where boughs are green 
A quiver runs 
In ecstasy or protest mild, 

As if some singing pulse beguiled 
In them a buoyant mien. 

Ah, when the whistling blast 
Sweeps down the hills, 

And, chanting high wild litanies, 

Uproots and crushes fated trees, 
Unbending trunks must fall! 

The while with vibrant thrills 
And ecstasies of battle, 

Supple boughs are stirred and swirled. 

Is there no sound in all the world 
Like living wind in trees! 


[ 53 ] 



GRAY DAYS 


Gray days in the hills 
Are more to me 
Than daffodils ’ 

Gay witchery. 

When trees are bare, 
Foreshadowed snow 
Croons in the air 
Adagio. 

Oh, I have known 

The sunbeams’ dance, 
And autumn’s own 
Rash countenance. 

But these are past, 

And to me seem— 
Now at the last— 

Some fancied dream. 

Gray days are peace, 

And hills content— 

A sweet release 
From merriment. 

Gray-shadowed hills 
Foretell the snow 
And my heart wills 
To have it so. 


[54 1 


POINT OF VIEW 


Somebody is always interpreting mountains: 

“ Sublime and noble neighbors of the sky— 
Immovably content, and calm and high 

Above the turmoil of the wo rid/’ 

Well, only yester morn in saffron light, 

I saw gray peaks awake, and listening caught 
A bit of wistful talk wherewith they sought 

To bridge wide gulfs of sombre height. 

And one said: ‘ ‘ See how yonder in the town 

Soft smoke curls sweetly over roofs of brown?” 

And one: “Last night I saw a gliding train 

With friendly lights, out on the plain!” 

SIESTA 

A turtle dove is crooning from the hill, 

The drone of honey bees comes from below, 

Blue window blinds and friendly doors are still, 
And life no longer throngs the patio. 

Brown dobe huts grow browner in the sun, 

In cooling shades heat’s glimmers disap¬ 
pear; 

Within gray walls the farmers every one, 

Are half asleep: siesta time is here. 

Tired bodies rest a while from daily toil, 

And yet the hour plays still a sweeter part: 

In sunny climes far from the world’s turmoil, 

It is the symbol of a tranquil heart. 


[ 55 ] 


WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND 

Who has ever seen the Wind? 

Is it gray, like a ghost in moonlight? 

Or a purple shadow in the mountains? 

Waiting out there on the hill tops 
Are the great tall pines and firs, 

Watching night and day for a hundred years— 
East—west—north—south—up and down— 

For one little glimpse of furtive Wind, 

Running like deer through the mountains. 

Towers of strength on dark-browed hills, 
Expectant have they seen ten thousand rising 
suns, 

As many evening glories in the West, 

Soft summer clouds, and rain, and snow, 
Heartbreaking April moons, 

And wistful ghosts that come and go ... . 

But they have been watching for the Wind, 

And they have not glimpsed his face. 

And while a thousand clouds and suns 
And taunting moons and stars 
Come flaunting visual charms 
To the watchers atop the hill, 

The soft-armed Wind has crept unseen 
Among their green-black branches 
To run ecstatic, baffled quivers 
Up and down their pulsing trunks. 


[ 56 ] 


Who has ever seen the Wind? 

Great trees have loved his touch, 

And later felt his wrath uproot and lay them 
prone. 

Why, though they have spoken his name, 
Watching night and day, day and night, 

For a dozen hundred years, 

They have not seen him come, nor go. 

Who has seen the Wind? 

Is he the jesting ghost of Moonlight? 

Or the passionate soul of Mountains? 


[ 57 ] 

















































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